02:43 am
by guineapiggie
Summary: Little encounters of two people in the dead of night. One-shots. Sherlock and John, Sherlock and Irene are up
1. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson

**Sherlock Holmes and John Watson**

**Disclaimer:** Well then, here we go again… I don't own it.

_***A/N* So I've had this ridiculous little idea of letting two Sherlock characters meet at 02:43 am and see where it goes. I've started out with the obvious one, tell me any pairing you like and I'll do what I can to make it into a little one-shot. Hope you like this one.**_

* * *

The explosion is ringing in my ears. Before I know it, I'm out of bed, gun cocked and at the ready, adrenaline burning through my veins. I can hear my own heartbeat drumming in my ears.

My brain's completely empty. Utter concentration. Nothing else than my finger on the trigger.

It takes me ages to recognise my small dark bedroom. In my flat in Baker Street, London, England. Not Afghanistan, not even remotely. The night air's far too cold for that anyway.

Panting and shuddering, I drop back on the bed and wait for my system to slow down.

I stare at the gun in my hand and start to wonder where the hell I even got that from so quickly. I could swear I'd placed it _in_ the drawer the other night.

Okay, yeah, I guess I should take out the bullets over night, just to be safe. I'm a danger to myself, and my flatmate. A sudden image of Sherlock running into the room in the dead of night comes to my mind and I shudder. That could have easily happened.

For God's sake, alright, maybe I'm not entirely stable. But I'm seriously working on it.

Then the source of the noise that woke me dawns on me. And, as much as I feared for his life seconds ago, I'm bloody furious at the idiot right now.

"Sherlock!"

I stomp down the stairs, not exactly worried to wake Mrs Hudson since she can impossibly have overheard the explosion, either.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I rip open the living room door and find my friend - how else could it be - fully dressed in the kitchen, Bunsen burner in one hand and a little test tube in the other. Massive mess on the kitchen table, obviously. Actually it's lucky the table doesn't have a hole in it.

"I found the culprit for the Thompson case!" he replies, looking slightly confused about my rage.

"Marvellous. _At 2:40 in the morning!"_

"Yeah, well, I'm meeting Lestrade at nine and I needed this done before and the Warner one, and that's presumably going to take me a while. And since I won't need much sleep before Wednesday, I thought I'd take care of it now."

I can't believe him. I really just can't. "Well, next time you might want to include in your sodding _schedule_ that you _might_ wake people if you _blow up_ a fucking teapot or whatever that used to be-"

"It's actually an old radio."

"_I don't bloody care!"_

He's looking really dumbfounded now. Since he obviously doesn't understand why I'm so angry, but even him as the world's biggest ignorant had to notice I'm kind of cross, he tries for an unconvincing: "Ah, I'm… sorry. Won't happen again."

"Won't happen again is great, yeah, cheers," I growl through clenched teeth, trying to convince myself to let it be and go to bed. He won't get it anyway.

"Isn't that what one should be saying?" he inquires, visibly unsatisfied with the result of his method.

"You just can't do that to someone with a goddamned trauma, Sherlock! You scared the hell out of me!"

Realization dawns on his face.

"Oh. I didn't think of that."

"You don't say?"

He actually looks kind of guilty now. "You shouldn't be sleeping with a gun," he mutters then. I don't know where he deduced that from now, but I've given up asking.

"You shouldn't be imitating bombs in the dead of night!"

"No. You're right. I'm sorry."

Wow. I can't believe it. He _means_ it. I'm immediately comforted.

"Just make sure it doesn't happen again, alright?"

"Right." He gently whirls the liquid in his test tube. "Could you hold that for a second?"

"No. I'm going back to bed."

"The effect of the adrenaline won't wear off for the next twenty minutes." Sherlock answers matter-of-factly and holds out the test tube to me. "You might as well make yourself useful."

For a split second, I really want to slap him, but then I have to grin.

If he could maintain his humility for more than thirty seconds, I would have worried about him. It might have been a sign for a fatal illness.

Maybe I'm crazy because it's quarter to three in the morning and I'm standing in the kitchen in my pyjamas, assisting some experiment that I don't even remotely understand, and I really don't want to be anywhere else.


	2. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler

**Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own a thing.

_***A/N* Still working on the request, came up with this one in the meantime.**_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was the last person whom she would have ever expected to text her, even before his suicide had been all over the papers.

She had always been flirting _at_ him.

After he had saved her, she had stopped, though. She had been over for him and she knew it, case solved, file closed, bye-bye baby. She had never made herself any delusions in that direction.

Love was, despite what he had said himself, nothing new to Sherlock Holmes. He had experienced, if not returned, it since childhood although his brother was rubbish at expressing feelings, too, so Sherlock might not even be aware of it.

Then there was always John. Sherlock's love for his friend had come slowly and he had perhaps mistaken it for respect until it was too late to back out of the deal. Whatever it was these two had, though, it went far beyond Irene's understanding.

But what she had made him feel had terrified him to no end and for that reason she had known he would vaporise into thin air like the smoke of a dying candle the moment he didn't feel responsible for her anymore. For Sherlock Holmes, desire was something dangerous, something that he - God beware - couldn't control. Their mutual attraction, the magnetism, had had a life of its own and he had been all but willing to give in to it.

But every now and then, settling into her life in New York, she had found herself wondering what would have happened if…?

Of course, she had forbidden herself these thoughts because what use were they in the end? And Irene Adler was surely not some naive little girl having absurd ideas about the one. So she stopped herself dreaming.

She had been keeping an eye on Sherlock via some English papers, though, and when they had told the world he had committed suicide, she had not believed them.

He had not been a fraud. She had seen it for herself after all, how he did the most miraculous deductions that he could impossibly have prepared beforehand within seconds. And most importantly, she was a cunning thing herself and it took no less than a genius to bring her down.

And he had defeated her, she had seen the victory gleaming in those magnificent eyes.

Nothing had ever made a man more desirable to her, and he was the only one she had happily granted that victory. It made her kind of proud that it had been him, that she had been clever enough to almost escape this man.

And if that honour was all he allowed her to keep, then that was fine. It was more than enough.

* * *

But then, about a year after he threw himself off a rooftop, she _did_ receive a text.

**I'm not dead. Let's have dinner -SH**

She stared at the phone and couldn't help a disbelieving laugh.

Three people knew of this phrase, obviously she didn't send it herself and poor John Watson never would. No, he was still mourning his beloved flatmate, and besides, he believed she was dead. And even if he didn't, he was far too honest and too kind to be toying with anyone like that, not even with her.

There was no doubt whatsoever, this text came from Sherlock Holmes.

**Anytime, Mr Holmes.**

**Meet you at your usual place in 20 min then. -SH**

Smiling, she left her flat ten minutes later, in a daring dress (she couldn't help that bit). The streets were empty, of course they were. Sherlock Holmes had proven his terrible timing once again by inviting her to dinner at half past two in the morning.

Her favourite Chinese, open 24/7, was just a few corners away. It looked shabby from the outside and was sparsely furnitured on the inside, with horrent prices and wonderful food.

And there he sat indeed, waiting for her at the far end of the room with two glasses of brandy on the table. He had abandoned his trademark coat and scarf, probably due to the fear of being recognized. Never had she believed she would see him in a pair of jeans and a plain white shirt, but there he was. His dark curls had had to go, too, his hair was only about an inch long now.

Looking worn and battle-scarred suited him well in her eyes.

And he still had those dazzling eyes.

"Ah, Miss Adler. Or whatever they call you these days."

"I'm still Miss Adler for you, Mr Holmes. How've you been?" she asked and sat down opposite him.

"Feeling a bit lifeless, to tell you the truth," he replied with the hint of a smile on his lips.

She smiled. "I know the feeling."

"Well then, between you and me, Miss Adler, a toast to the dead." He raised his glass.

"Cheers," she gave back, downing her brandy before he had.

It was still on, then, their cat-and-mouse game, and she relished every second of it.

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